My First Slip Knot

Most of us begin to knit from mothers, grandmothers or sisters, and I well remember sitting on the floor sucking on shiny, green plastic knitting needles while watching mum as she counted her stitches in almost a fearful way. Mum was a typical 50's leaflet knitter. That is, she obeyed the instructions, never daring to switch yarns, and therefore she knitted me perfect little cardigans with uniform ribbed bands. Even from that early age of five, I knew I would knit with a questioning enthusiasm. Was knitting something we must march through in order to produce the gray school sweater? Perhaps it was because I was born in the bush that I had a hard time narrowing my vision.

My grandparents were like ma and pa Kettle. They'd come to Australia in the 40's and bought land on the fringe of Perth, Western Australia. Grandfather was an eccentric Englishman who always preferred to live at a distance to people. He built their three-room shack himself, and as his many children arrived, group by group in Australia, they would all be accommodated in and around this amazing home. Mum and dad came as ten pound "specials" on a rusty migrant ship doing its last trip. And they also stayed at what was affectionately called Jamayla Mansions, and I was born in December, 1951.

There seemed to be so much time for lolling around. Everyone would settle on the verandah, finding a space on the ancient overstuffed lounge, or a wonky cane chair, or maybe just lie on the cool grass under the flame tree. Life didn't demand a lot. Which seems strange because everything had to be done the long way. The women did laundry in a copper boiler and cement trough with a bar of yellow soap. Our clothes swung beneath bush trees on a length of rope. We washed in an enamel bowl using a flannel and a tin mug to rinse off. A piece of laundry soap was chopped off for this, and we also lathered up our hair with it. Granny's wood stove kept going day and night as she turned out butter cakes and pots of stew to feed the clan. We ate where we pleased, with a fork and tin plate.

The great laugh of our week was the dunnyman who came to exchange our overflowing dunny bin with an empty one. Now the dunny is the famous Australian outback toilet. It was always situated at the end of the backyard path, and was guarded by redback spiders that were also famous -- for biting your bottom as you sat on the wooden seat. There was no flush and no tissue paper, just squares of newspaper threaded with string hanging up behind the dark door. Needless to say, the stinkhouse had its friendly gathering of flies. So the poor dunnyman got joked at as he trudged back to his truck slopping the bin contents over his back. We were rude little kids but he made some strong memories.

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